Sister of Rogues (3 page)

Chapter Two

Jamie paced back and forth in the parlor of the townhouse, muttering under his breath. When he got his hands on Brice Molyneux, the man would wish he'd never met Fiona—or anyone else named MacLeod.

“Curse all you want,” Mari said from a chair well out of his pathway, “but please stand still for a moment. I am getting quite dizzy watching you.”

He jerked to a stop and ran a hand through his dark hair. “How in the hell did this happen? How could Fiona just run off?” He didn't expect an answer since he'd asked the question several hundred times since his sister had gone missing at the ball last night along with that English dandy. He'd hired Bow Street runners at first light to find them, but none of them had reported back yet.

Mrs. Fields, the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway with a plate of warm scones covered in clotted cream, followed by Givens, the butler, carrying a silver tea service. “Both of you need to eat something,” Mrs. Fields said.

“I do not think either of us is hungry,” Mari replied.

“Neither of you will do Fiona any good if you are too weak to stand on your feet,” Mrs. Fields answered in a tone that brooked no nonsense. “Eat.”

Givens set a small flask down beside the tea. “Fortifications.”

Jamie eyed it. “Good Scots whisky?”

Givens's mouth turned up slightly in what was almost a smile. “Indeed, sir.”

“'Tis the first piece of good news I've had today.”

“Pour some for me too,” Mari said after the servants left.

That his wife had developed a taste for
uisge beatha
was not a surprise. Abigail, his cousin Shane's wife, had introduced both Mari and Fiona to the
restorative
uses of whisky after one of the more risky antics they'd undertaken. Jamie just wished this situation was nothing more than another such venture.

“I cannot seriously believe that Fiona would elope with Mr. Molyneux,” Mari said as she handed Jamie a scone.

“Neither of them are here, are they?” Jamie asked, biting into the scone and swallowing without chewing. “I should have ridden after them to Gretna myself.”

“You are needed here in case…” Mari's voice trailed off. “Besides, you dispatched riders at dawn's break with a missive to the smith not to marry them. If Fiona and Mr. Molyneux are headed to Gretna Green, the riders will catch up.”

“It takes several days to get there, which means several
nights
as well.”

“They only have a few hours' start. Saddle horses are faster than a carriage.”

Jamie poured another dram of whisky into his cup, not bothering with tea. “Of all the cockeyed misadventures Fiona has ever managed to get herself into, this tops all of them together. How could she be so feather-brained to hie off with the first dandy to speak empty flattery to her?”

Mari put down her half-eaten scone. “I think you have answered your own question. She would not. Fiona is smarter than that.”

Jamie drained the cup. “Then where is she? And where is that no-good nephew of Dashalong?”

Mari shook her head. “I just do not think Fiona would be so foolish as to leave with Mr. Molyneux.”

“She was foolish enough to go into the gardens with him.” Jamie stood, stalked to the window and looked out blankly. “I ken well ye and yer sister instructed Fiona on society's rules, but the lass has always been willful.” He began to pace again. “'Tis my fault. I should have kept a better eye on her.”

“Do not blame yourself, husband. The gardens were well-lit and crowded. She should have been safe.”

“Aye, which proves the fact she willingly left with the mon.”

Mari poured more whisky into her cup, not bothering to add more tea either. “Do you really believe she would do that?”

“I…” Jamie ran his hand through his hair again. “What else can I believe?”

Silence ensued. Jamie turned away from the window. Mari was staring into her cup as though the tea leaves might hold an answer. “What are ye thinking?”

“I do not want to say it.”

Jamie took a deep breath. “Ye think something has happened to her?”

Mari nodded, not taking her gaze off her cup.

Jamie crossed over to her and sat down, taking Mari's hand. “Aye, lass. I have considered that as well.”

Mari looked up at him, tears in her eyes. “They…they did search the grounds?”

“Aye. Castlereagh had all his footmen out covering every nook and cranny and bushes as well. Nothing turned up, nae a broken branch or scrap of cloth.” Jamie set his jaw. “'Tis why I think they ran off.”

“It makes no sense. This was the first ball of the season. Fiona wanted to enjoy all the parties—and I do not think she is in love with Mr. Molyneux.”

“Who kens what lies he told her? I doona trust the mon. Fiona is eight-and-ten, nae experienced—”

“She may be young,” Mari interrupted, “but she is not witless about men. After all, she was the one who managed to enthrall the Customs man so Abigail could get Shane's documents—”

“Doona remind me of that.”

“Yes, well. Perhaps that is not the best example. Still. Fiona is not fluffy-headed like the silly girls at the balls.”

“She is nae that. 'Tis a fact, though, that her curiosity leaps far ahead of her sense at times. Ye doona ken how many times—”

“Excuse me, sir.” Givens appeared in the door, his face unusually pale.

“What is it?” Mari asked, jumping up.

“One of the Bow Street runners has returned,” Givens replied.

Jamie rose too, willing himself to stay calm. “They found them?”

Givens shook his head. “Only Mr. Molyneux.”

Throwing civility to the wind, Jamie stormed across the room and out into the hall, nearly flattening Givens in the process. “Where is my sister?” he thundered at the man waiting in the foyer.

The runner took a step back and then held his ground. “We do not know, sir.”

“What do ye mean, ye doona ken? What did the rake say he did with her?”

“He did not say anything, sir. He could not. A wh…” The runner saw Mari in the hallway, “…a lady of the evening found him in a tenement. He'd been stabbed.”

“He is dead?” Mari asked in shock.

“He was unconscious when found and taken to the surgeon's. I do not know if he yet lives.”

Fiona rattled the door once more, although she knew it was futile. She had been locked inside a bedchamber since earlier this afternoon. Muttering an oath she'd heard her brothers use many times, she contemplated her circumstances. The room was on the second floor, which would have allowed a fairly easy escape with the massive vines clinging to the stone walls outside, but both the window overlooking an inner court and the one on the outside wall had been nailed shut. Pity, since Fiona had spent her childhood climbing both trees and rickety ladders to hay lofts so she could eavesdrop on her unsuspecting brothers. Shimmying down the vines would be easy—if she could just get out.

The room was sparsely furnished with a wooden armoire along one wall and a small oak table upon which sat a tin water pitcher and basin. Neither item was strong enough to break the window's glass. The brass chamber pot in the corner would work, except the window had small panes and she'd have to break the wood as well. The noise would be certain to bring Ada, the huge woman who called herself a matron, to the room before Fiona could crawl onto the ledge.

She sighed in frustration. She didn't understand why Brice had been attacked—had he been badly hurt?—nor did she understand why she had been abducted or what she was doing in an asylum in Ireland.

Fiona walked to the window again and peered down into the enclosed courtyard and then up. Square towers rose on the corners of the massive stone walls around the court, each with merlots and embrasures indicating battlements. Assuming there were towers on the corners of the back wing she'd been locked in, it appeared she was in some sort of small castle.

She had always loved exploring castles and ruins, even though her brothers had told her such structures were often unsafe. This one seemed quite sturdy, although her safety was certainly in question. Why in the
bloody
—she'd learned that word from Jamie—hell was she here in the first place?

Damnation. This was pure madness—and she was not the lunatic.

A key turned and the door opened to reveal two young, red-haired maids, one carrying a bucket of water and the other a plate of food. Behind them stood the matron.

She pushed the maids inside and closed the door behind her. The girls both seemed nervous, glancing sideways at Fiona but not making eye contact as the taller, thin one put the plate of bread and cheese on the table and the shorter, plump one filled the pitcher. Then they scurried back to the safety of the door.

The matron pointed. “The master said you are to eat.”

Fiona looked up at her. “The master?”

“Mr. O'Reilly.”

In spite of her circumstances, Fiona felt a tingle travel down her spine. She was used to being around bonny, braw men—the Lord knew, women fairly swooned over her brothers and cousin—but something about Kier was different. Dressed totally in black, he was an imposing figure. Tall and broad-shouldered like her kin, his long hair as inky as Ian's and his handsome face as chiseled as Jamie's, he wore an invisible cloak of despondency, almost as though tragedy haunted him. Maybe that was only her imagination though—her brothers said she was given to flights of fancy—because she couldn't tell what lay behind those piercing midnight-sapphire eyes. She had thought they were nearly black until the oil lamp on his desk earlier had caught the dark shade of blue. When she looked into Kier's eyes, Fiona felt like she was falling into deep, dark water.

Ada must have noticed a change in her expression since the woman widened her stance. “Do not be gettin' fancy ideas about him even though he fair coddles ye lunatics. After what that damn Englishwoman did, he'll not be takin' up with another.”

Aha. So there was something mysterious about Kier O'Reilly. Fiona's natural inquisitiveness rose. What had the Englishwoman done? She was sorely tempted to ask, but knew she would get no information out of Ada. Fiona glanced at the maids, both of whom were still eyeing her with some trepidation. If she could win their trust, perhaps they'd share confidences about what had happened to the
master
…and maybe they'd even help her escape as well.

“What are your names?'

They were both startled and then looked at Ada who grimaced and pointed to the taller one. “That one is Erin. The other be Brena.”

“I am glad to meet you. Hopefully, we can be friends,” Fiona said.

Both girls widened their eyes and said nothing.

Fiona sighed. Perhaps
friends
had been too strong a word to use. They thought she was mad, after all.

“They will be seein' to yer food and such,” Ada said.

“Am I to stay locked in this room? I thought Mr. O'Reilly said I would be able to have freedom inside the house.”

Ada sniffed. “He promises too much. The
warden's
order is to allow an hour of exercise—with me supervising—a day. Ye
might
be allowed to take dinner in the dining room once I decide ye can follow the rules.”

“Rules?”

The matron crossed her arms. “There will be no screaming or shouting. No hitting or resisting, even when the surgeon comes to bleed ye—”

“Bleed me?” Fiona interrupted. “Why would he do that?”

“There will be no interrupting either,” Ada continued without answering her question. “Ye will not speak without permission.”

“But—”

“Silence!” Ada narrowed her eyes. “If ye do not obey, ye will be lashed.”

“Mr. O'Reilly allows beating?” Fiona asked, ignoring the command. Before she could move to defend herself, the matron moved with astonishing speed toward her and Fiona's head snapped back with the impact of the woman's slap. By the door, one of the maids gasped. Fiona put a hand to her stinging cheek, stunned. Never in her life had anyone raised a hand to her.

“Everyone knows lunatics must be beaten into submission,” Ada replied and then sneered. “The master does not see everything. That mark on yer face will disappear before morning. I leave no welts or bruises.”

Fiona looked past the matron to the maids, both of whom had gone pale. If she were not to have the freedom to move about the house, the maids were her only chance to get a message to Kier O'Reilly. She would have to be very careful, but she would succeed. She would succeed.

Somehow, Fiona must convince Kier she was not the one who was mad.

Kier descended the hidden passageway that led from his chamber to the northwestern tower that was off-limits to everyone and paused. His mother had died in this tower two years ago after withdrawing from the world when his father was killed at the battle of Vitoria. Kier remembered his mother keening and wailing in her chambers on the third floor of the tower. He had felt helpless in assuaging her grief since he was dealing with his own. His father had been conscripted into British service through the Militia Act and, although the Irish would have preferred to let England fight Napoleon on its own, the wages allowed the O'Reillys to pay their taxes and keep their home.

Having graduated from Trinity College, Kier had gone to Italy to try to secure funds for the Irish militia opposed to the Act of Union when his mother took her life. He had failed in the Italian endeavor and he had failed his mother as well.

Pressing a brass lever, Kier pushed against the wooden panel concealing the passage and stepped inside the ground floor of the tower. Servants insisted they heard his mother's keening and wailing after her death, a superstition Kier didn't bother to correct, even though he knew the cracked mortar in the old stone allowed the wind to howl when storms blew through. When he'd said he wanted to leave the tower untouched, the staff was more than willing to stay away. And it served his purposes.